


see me through

by eleanor_lavish



Category: Social Network (2010) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleanor_lavish/pseuds/eleanor_lavish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set the night of the National Board of Review awards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	see me through

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhahhaa, so. I finally saw the damn movie, and between that and my tumblr exploding with photos from this event, and pictures of Andrew as Bambi, I just. Whatever. This happened. Thanks to [](http://lakeeffectgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**lakeeffectgirl**](http://lakeeffectgirl.livejournal.com/) for the reassurance and to [](http://missedyourskin.livejournal.com/profile)[**missedyourskin**](http://missedyourskin.livejournal.com/) for the enabling. <3

They haven’t seen in each other in a while, in too long, _weeks_ , over a month, maybe two. They’ve both been busy, so fucking busy, and it’s not like Jesse minds it, when it means there’s always work.

(He does mind it, he _does_ , but he’s grateful for the open doors, as much as he hates the interviews, the glad-handing. He had a talk with Woody about it once, about the bullshit of Hollywood and how he feels like he’s being pulled in two directions every time a cute blond with bright white teeth sits across from him at a junket, like they’re all waiting for him to sound like a moron, to fall on his face to further their own careers, but they’d still fuck him in the bathroom, like he was cool enough to pull that off. Woody had responded with a braying laugh. “That’s it exactly, man! All of Hollywood is suffering from a madonna/whore complex. The key is, you’ve got to put your dimmers on for them, never let ‘em see your brights.” It didn’t make any sense, but it was quintessentially Woody, and Jesse still remembers it fondly.)

They’re wearing nearly identical suits; Andrew wouldn’t say so, of course, because Andrew could probably answer Jesse’s most hated red carpet question (“Who are you _wearing_?”). Mostly because Andrew has some fucking class, while Jesse has a closet full of threadbare sweaters and ironic t-shirts. Jesse had to wait in the lobby of Andrew’s hotel for twenty minutes until the elevator finally pinged open and Andrew and Armie sauntered out, but he can’t be mad, not even a little, not when Andrew’s face lights up when he sees Jesse, when he wraps his arms around Jesse’s shoulders and pulls him close.

“Missed you, hi, hello,” Andrew is practically giggling into Jesse’s hair, and Jesse would say something witty, or something kind, something like, _I’m sorry, what’s your name again? It’s Peter something, right?_ , but when he wraps his arm around Andrew’s waist, he can feel the hard bulk of him under his clothes, firm where he used to be soft, and what comes out is “holy shit, there’s, like, way more of you now. What the hell...”

Andrew laughs, because he seems to think Jesse is pretty funny, but there’s a high blush on his cheeks. “I hate my bloody trainer, so so much,” he replies, and Jesse’s mouth ignores his brain entirely when he says, “I hear spandex is not at all forgiving.” Andrew laughs again, and Jesse’s grinning; he’s always grinning around Andrew. “You suck,” Andrew tells him, but he doesn’t let Jesse out of arm’s length for the whole red carpet walk, or the dinner, or any second in between. Jesse hasn’t felt this comfortable in his own skin in weeks, months... how long has it been?

Too long.

*

They have two drinks at some afterparty - staying long enough that Jesse gets to say hello to a handful of the right people and suffer through half a dozen small conversations with the wrong ones - before Andrew leans in close and murmurs in his ear. “Hey old man, fancy a nightcap?”

“Absolutely, yes,” Jesse says, eager for a reason to get the hell out of the party, “My place?” When Andrew nods, Jesse exhales, even more eager to toss his jacket in the corner of his bedroom and sit too close to Andrew on his overstuffed sofa, drinking beer and catching up and letting their knees bump together, flipping through Jesse’s stack of Oscar screeners but never actually watching anything. It’s not like Jesse has the evening planned out; if Andrew had wanted to hit every nightclub in New York, Jesse would have manned up and gone along. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to.

They take a yellow cab to Brooklyn and Andrew lets Jesse talk most of the way, a monologue about the crazy snow storm they just had and his weird cats and how Brooklyn feels less like a neighborhood than Queens ever did, but that he feels more at home in it, and is that fucked up? Andrew rests his head back against the seat and smiles at him, asking questions at just the places, letting Jesse feel like he’s not rambling, even though he probably is. “When are you out in LA?” he asks at one point, and Jesse shrugs.

“The Oscars? Press for Rio starts right after that. I’m just reading scripts these days; my agent seems to want to schedule all my downtime with lunches.”

“Lunches are awful,” Andrew says, his forehead creasing in sympathy.

“I know,” Jesse sighs. “I feel like a dick for turning them down, like my mom will appear and ask me if I know how many starving children in Africa would love to have lunch at Babbo, and how could I say no to free food.”

“Would she then stand over you and make sure you cleaned your plate?” Andrew grins.

“Probably.” _Jewish mothers_ , he thinks, and Andrew laughs, like he can read Jesse’s mind.

*

It’s not that Jesse doesn’t like surprises, but. Okay. He enjoys randomness and weirdness and watching things cosmically collide, but really, when it comes to his own life, Jesse likes a little heads up when things are about to radically change. He likes to be able to think about things, to shuffle them into the right boxes in his head. He’s not good at rolling with shit, not even when he wants to. They’ve only had three beers, and the clock on Jesse’s microwave shines _2:13_ , and Andrew presses Jesse up against his refrigerator and kisses him, slow and deep. “Missed you,” Andrew whispers when he pulls back, and his eyes are full of want and weariness and a shining light that sends a shockwave right through Jesse.

“We’re actually doing this?” Jesse asks. “Now?”

“Do you want to not do this?” Andrew shoots back at him, and it’s an unfair question, the way Andrew’s hand is resting on his hip, his thumb stroking Jesse’s side, slipping just under the hem of his shirt.

“That’s not. Yes. I mean, no. Yes, I want to do this. This wasn’t the day I thought this would happen,” he says helplessly. Andrew’s smile isn’t mocking and Jesse breathes in deep.

“What day were you thinking?”

“No, this is good, I just,” but he doesn’t just anything, because Andrew kisses him again, and Jesse manages to hook his hand around Andrew’s neck to pull him closer, bites at his lip hard enough that Andrew whimpers. “This is good, absolutely,” he says when Andrew pulls him toward the bedroom.

*

“You don’t mind if I keep my shirt on, do you?” Jesse asks and Andrew huffs at him.

“Don’t be a twat.”

“Or maybe you should. That is just not normal, what you have going on there. Is that, like, a twelve pack? That’s obscene.”

“It’s the result of daily torture, okay? Come on, naked, let’s go Jesse.”

“Okay, fine, I just feel like I’m the ‘before’ picture from some late-night infomercial and - “

“Oh my _god_ , shut up.”

“What, you’re offended that I think you’re hot?”

“I’m offended that you don’t believe that I believe that _you’re_ hot.”

“That’s... okay. Good. Where were we?”

“ _Nudity_.”

*

Andrew is sharp and pale against Jesse’s sheets, all of his new muscles trembling. Jesse touches them, fascinated, as his hips push slowly forward, as Andrew opens up beneath him. “Oh, fuck, Jess,” Andrew says, his eyes closed tight. His fingers are like a vice on Jesse’s wrist, twitching as Jesse fucks into him, slow, slow, so fucking slow. Jesse’s not going to rush this.

“In about eighteen months, the whole world is going to fall in love with you,” Jesse says, and his hand is pressed to Andrew’s face, his thumb slipping along the red swell of Andrew’s lower lip as he breathes in deep, ragged.

“Jesse, come on,” Andrew keens, and his eyes are dark, his hips canting upward.

“Shut up, listen to me,” Jesse says crisply. This is important, this is _critical_. “They’re all going to fall in love with you because you’re beautiful and amazing and smart and you’re the kind of guy the world falls in love with, but I want you to know,” he says, and his hips are moving faster now, fast enough that Andrew wraps one leg around Jesse’s waist, “I want you to remember that I found you first, okay? That the whole world is waiting to love you, but I loved you first.”

Andrew’s eyes are wide and wet when he comes, and Jesse doesn’t look away, even though he wants to.

*

“When’s your flight?” Jesse asks in the morning, because he’s nothing if not a masochist. The sun is slanting across his walls and Andrew is wrapped around his side, one arm flung over Jesse’s chest. From this angle, his bicep is _huge_.

“Tomorrow,” Andrew murmurs against his shoulder.

“I... oh.”

“Changed it before the party.”

“Oh.”

“Tried to make it Wednesday, but Marc said no go.”

“Tomorrow’s okay,” Jesse says, and Andrew finally opens his eyes. They’re big and gorgeous and kind and just a little bemused, and Jesse bristles. “What?”

“I booked you a ticket for tomorrow too, unless you’re too busy with lunches. I figure you can crash at my place for a while, if you want.”

“I. Yeah. Sure.”

“You’re an idiot,” Andrew says, but he’s laughing. Jesse can feel it all the way to his toes. Andrew leans in and kisses him, closed mouthed and sweet. “I’ll remember,” he says, “you total moron. I’ll remember.”


End file.
